Rivers Will Have Rocks
by Frozen Melons
Summary: Post Reinchenbach, Sherlock returns home after dispatching all of Moriarty's web. Little does he know there is a deeper mystery full of lies and suspense being played in London...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This idea has been in my head for awhile, so I've been eager to get it out! There will be no attempted slash, but as the reader, you may interpret it anyway you wish. Also, chapters will be short(ish?) due to the author having no ability to write long, detailed chapters.**

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Three years. Sherlock Holmes had been officially dead for three years. For three years Sherlock had not been able to go back to his best friend. It took three years to destroy all of Moriarty's web, and Sherlock was almost done. He had tracked Sebastian Moran, the second in command, to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of France. Everything Sherlock wore had been specially designed for reconnaissance, but it had it's uses for blending into the dark. Every piece of intel gathered had told him that Moran would be in the warehouse that night. Sherlock found a dark corner and hide there until Moran made his way there.

A shadow came into the warehouse, and Sherlock quietly drew his gun out. The silencer was on, and the gun was fully loaded with life taking bullets. All he had to do now was see the face of Sebastian Moran.

"I have information regarding a certain detective," a deep, low voice echoed across the warehouse.

Sherlock stiffened, surely they didn't know he was here? The detective was sure that Mycroft had fed many of Moran's associates lies about his locations, for no one was smart enough to figure out where he was. There were only three people who were very close to that line, one of them was dead, the other was his brother, and the other was hopefully still an ally. Sherlock was 75 percent sure she was still an ally. Mycroft, on the other hand, probably thought Sherlock was in Poland.

A thick silence enveloped the room until the man continued, "He is still alive."

A loud crash vibrated around the building at the meaning of those words. Sherlock had faked several deaths on his quest, and a part of him was pleased how Moran had not suspected the latest one at all. The other part, however, lowered the percentage of trust he had in his ally to 37 percent.

"Anything else?" a deeper rumbling echoed across the damp room.

The voice was unmistakably Moran's. Sherlock easily pin pointed the sniper to be hiding somewhere in the rafters.

"Yes," the sharply dressed man suddenly pulled out a gun and shot the crate next to Sherlock.

The pieces of wood flew across the room and some were caught in Sherlock's hair. The detective pulled up his gun, pointed it at the man who shot at him, and quickly pulled the trigger. While Sherlock had dispatched the man, Sebastian Moran had pulled out his own gun and proceeded to fire at the dark haired detective. Sherlock quickly ran for cover as more and more bullets whizzed past his head.

"Come out and play, Sherly," Moran eerily imitated the high tones of Moriarty as he also slid into the shadows of the warehouse.

As Sherlock moved deeper into the shadows, he made sure to dip the gun slightly in order for a flash of the gun to be seen by Moran. He knew it was a dangerous move, but he was eager to go home. Sebastian saw the flash of the gun instantly. He raised his own gun and fired six successive shots at the approximate location of Sherlock. The sandy blonde dropped the empty gun and pulled out the spare from his holster. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor and a low grunt. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. The sniper stepped into the light to have a look at the man who has been chasing him for three years.

As the mop of curly hair made it into his vision, the gleam of a gun made itself known as well. With ease, Sherlock pulled the trigger and a bullet tore through Sebastian Moran's brain.

"I don't like games," he stated coldly.

If Sherlock had been asked to play a game before The Great Game, as John had dubbed it, Sherlock would've answered with a simple yes. If Sherlock had been asked after, he would've asked what type of game. Since his suicide, Sherlock hated all games, and especially riddles.

Grunting, Sherlock pulled himself up. He gingerly felt his broken ribs under the bullet proof vest. Two ribs were broken, and many more were bruised. John would be able to fix it. Sherlock smiled at the thought of being able to return to John. Then, he sighed as he thought of Mycroft's smug face. The annoying fat git had insisted upon wearing a bullet proof vest for the entire case, and Sherlock had grudging complied. The detective knew Mycroft would be gloating for many years to come.

Without jostling his ribs, Sherlock took survey of the scene. The two men lied in a dark pool of blood. Both of them were confirmed dead. He was thankful of the silencers each gun had contained, for if they weren't there, the police would've stormed the place by now and every minute of planning would've gone to waste. Speaking of planning, Sherlock placed a question mark next to the two allies. In order to make a firm decision, he needed to gather more data. Shaking his head, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft.

"Ah, hello brother dearest. Care to explain why you weren't in Poland?" an irritated voice greeted Sherlock.

"It's time to go home," Sherlock answered with relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Some angst here, so be warned! Also, the story will have about 7ish chapters, but that'll depend on how much I write. Good thing I have most of the plot planned out!**

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A black, unmarked car dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street. His chest was wrapped in a bundle of bandages, but the pain barely registered on Sherlock's mind. His heart beat fast, for he wondered what would John do when he found out Sherlock was alive. The most logical assumption would be that John would punch him. Sherlock may not know much about human emotions, but he was certain that John would punch him.

The detective hoped his blogger had moved on, got one of those dull girlfriends to marry him, and was leading a healthy life, but a darker part of him hoped John hadn't. Even Sherlock knew it was selfish, but he knew he wouldn't be able to function very well once John was taken out of his life. Sherlock was fairly certain the army doctor could cope much better than he.

Sherlock shook the thoughts out of his head and rang the doorbell of 221b Baker Street. Nothing happened as two minutes passed. The detective's heart was fluttering softly in his chest in anticipation. Stupid! Deductions flew across his mind as no one answered the door. Of course John moved out of Baker Street. Memories of a certain dead friend would've made anyone move out. Stupid! As Sherlock turned to leave, the door of 221b suddenly opened. Sherlock whipped around wanting to find John in the doorway, but Mrs. Hudson entered his vision instead.

"Oh my god," she murmured before her eyes rolled up in the back of her head and fainted.

Fortunately, Sherlock had deduced this in mere seconds and thus, he smoothly caught his former landlady before she could fall onto the hard concrete. The detective quickly opened the door to his former flat and carried Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. Spying the old couch, Sherlock gently lied her on her back on the soft cushions. The dark haired man then stood up and did a quick scan of the room.

Sherlock hummed slightly as he took notice of the piles of boxes with his things in it. He made his way towards the boxes and found that John had left everything belonging to Sherlock behind. Sherlock allowed a small smile to crease his lips when he couldn't find his skull. Three years and nothing in his flat had changed too much. The tall man walked silently to the kettle and turned it on.

After a few minutes, Mrs Hudson stirred. Sherlock grabbed two tea cups, poured the tea, and sat on the chair waiting for her to regain consciousness. She stirred slightly, and opened her glassy eyes.

"Sherlock?" she murmured as she sat up.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as polite as he could, for it made John happier when he used his manners.

"Is it really you?" she asked as she reached out a hand to touch his face.

Sherlock pulled her hand and cupped it against his cheek. He nodded slightly and observed her. It had been so long since the last time he'd seen her. She had more wrinkles, but still seemed full of life. Her face was of unmasked surprise and happiness, for her eyes sparkled under the light and her mouth opened in a small "o". His old landlady blinked several times and held onto his hand more tightly. Her eyes were starting to water, and Sherlock couldn't understand why. Oh, he knew it was because of either joy or sadness, but the way she trembled and took small, quick gasps of breath told him it was because of sadness. Why would she be sad? Unless of course…

"Oh Sherlock. Oh my god, Sherlock. John… John… oh he took your death very badly, you see… and he," she paused and wiped her eyes faintly, "he just, oh he's dead Sherlock! Dead!"

Sherlock froze. A loud buzzing like the sound of a bee overtook his ears. Everything seemed to collapse. It was with the confirmation in Mrs. Hudson's voice that caused reality to sharpen and hit him like a large mirror. He felt as if the tiny shards of glass had encrusted in his frantic, beating heart. His stomach rolled as if he was on one of those dreaded rollercoasters, and he felt the rooftop scene all over again… only this time he would never see John again. It was his fault, for he pressed all of the grief onto John.

The detective soon felt a hot tinge of anger. Why hadn't Mycroft told him of John's mental wellbeing? The fat, deceiving, bully of a brother had even insisted multiple times that John was alright and dealing with his death finely. Why didn't he do anything? A small squeeze from old, worn hands jolted him from his thoughts.

The dark haired man hadn't realized his eyes betrayed his emotions until the same warm hand wiped some of the wet tears away. He let go of his hand, and hurriedly wiped the offending liquids away. He stared at the floor.

"When?" he choked out.

"Two months after your death. Shot to the head, and he was such a nice man, to have as a friend," she murmured softly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he spoke while standing up. "I need to visit Mycroft, I'll return."


	3. Chapter 3

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled as he stormed across the Diogenes Club.

Several members silently gasped and began to send fierce glares at the man who disrupted the silence. Sherlock, however, couldn't care less. His face was red, and he was breathing deep, angry huffs. With his fists still clenched, he yelled his brother's name at the top of his voice once more. The security guards approached Sherlock, but Sherlock remained locked in place. If looks could kill, the entire planet might have disappeared into a dark flaming black hole. An irate older brother came next, and he grabbed Sherlock tightly around the arm and dragged the detective into his clean office.

"How many times have I told you, Sherlock? The Diogenes Club is no place for such childish behavior," Mycroft scolded as Sherlock continued to radiate hot anger. "What is it now? I have other things to do besides taking care of an annoying young brother."

"You said you would look after him," Sherlock snarled. "You said he was fine!"

Mycroft froze, and said slowly, "If I had told you of his condition, it would only have led to dire consequences. If I had told you, you would have put everyone in danger by revealing yourself."

"I could've handled the situation," Sherlock growled.

"Yes, just like how you handled The Great Game! Moriarty has shown he has the ability to get to you very easily, so you needed the element of surprise. If I had told you, you would've gallivanted back to London and therefore let the rest of Moriarty's web place you back into their crosshairs," Mycroft sighed.

All of the energy before was gone. The dark haired man sagged in his seat. Sherlock knew that was exactly what he would've done. Caring was a terrible feeling, and Sherlock had ultimately fell for it. Caring is not an advantage. It had left him feeling hollow and dead to the world. He dimly wondered if this was how John had felt when he watched his best friend die. Sherlock could remember the exact conversation of the phone call, and it started to replay several times in his head. A deep chasm opened up for the second time in his life, and it felt as if all of the excitement of the world drained out. Mycroft could practically smell the loneliness of the man before him, and he let some of his own sadness show onto his face.

"What do I do now?" the dark haired man whispered to the room.

"You should continue to solve crimes. It's what he would've wanted," Mycroft murmured.

"I wish to see the photographs, and the report," Sherlock muttered quietly.

Mycroft had anticipated this for a long time, so he went to the second drawer of his perfectly polished, wooden desk and pulled out a sand colored folder. With a hesitant hand, Sherlock took the folder. It was lighter than he had thought, for he felt as if the folder would've contained every bit of sadness that seeped out of his pores. He opened it, and a crystal clean file of one John Watson greeted him. The picture clipped onto the file was of when John was still in the army since the vast desert skies in his eyes were still twinkling with the prospect of danger. This John wore heavily dusted army fatigues that seemed to wrap around him, as if they belonged there. The photograph was taken out on the dry, barren desert. John had the expression of pure concentration, but even then, a small smile was able to crease his lips.

Sherlock never read John's file, for he had already found out everything that was to know about him just from the day in the morgue. The detective now held an expression of deep thought as he pulled out the report of The Day. A picture of the scene greeted him. John, in his cream jumper, was lying dead on the floor, eyes closed. His gun was gripped loosely in his right hand, and the grey powder burn could be seen on his hand. A pool of scarlet blood pooled behind his head. The blood had soaked into the carpet, and colored the wood. The pool of blood was red, like Irene's lipstick, and it reflected the room like a mirror that only showed tragedies. For the first time, Sherlock felt the urge to look away from the bloody scene. He wanted to vomit.

Sherlock dimly noted the wrinkles that told of sleepless nights. He saw the nightmares that haunted his friend etched onto his pale face. Only this time, it wasn't about the war. A light stubble showed drunken nights and how far John had fell. The dark haired man's stomach rolled and tumbled like a washing machine. The photograph screamed at Sherlock that it was his fault, that he had drove his doctor to suicide. It was his fault.

Sherlock hadn't noticed his hands were violently shaking until Mycroft called out his name, softly, as if they were children once more and Sherlock had climbed up to Mycroft's bed to seek comfort. Sherlock turned the picture and read the report. Gunshot through the mouth. Suicide. Nothing out of the ordinary. No note. John was dead, and there was nothing he could do. He forcibly wiped his overwhelming emotions, shoved the file back at Mycroft, and stalked back to Baker Street head throbbing with locked up feelings.

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**I hope Sherlock and Mycroft weren't OOC. Like I said before, 7ish chapters. Up next, more angst and the mysteries begin!**


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